


Guilt

by dharma22



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, F/F, not really angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharma22/pseuds/dharma22
Summary: Isabela finds it hard to look at Hawke after her stunt with the Qunari.





	Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> So . . . this isn't my best work. I'm trying really hard to get back into writing because I fall in and out of it all the time, which is incredibly frustrating. Makes me want to cry. But this is just something short and shitty to try and get the creative ball rolling again.  
> I'm trying to work on a full length fic with a gender bent Solas but it's a very sloooooooow process. This is all I have for now.
> 
> Sorry for any errors, I don't know the english language and don't have an editor (how do people get those?). 
> 
> Anyways, please leave a comment giving me feedback on this! I could really use it, especially so I can get back into writing. 
> 
> Thanks :)

**Guilt**

Hawke was an ass; Isabela loved that. Hawke was kind; Isabela loved that. Hawke had great tits, a nice ass. Isabela  _ loved  _ that.

But there was one thing Isabela hated. Hawke’s nose. 

Hawke had a handsome face, one that Isabela felt should be forever immortalized in something,  _ anything _ . Stone, painting, the written word. And her nose was a part of that face. It grotesquely massive. It wasn’t obscenely tiny. It was . . . complicated. 

It was crooked. Broken. And it was all Isabela’s fault. 

All those years ago, when tension between the Arishok and the rest of Kirkwall climaxed and snapped, Hawke had been there to quench the flames of conflict. She’d (reluctantly) faced the threat. Hawke had to, not because no one else would, although that was part of it, but because Hawke was  _ Hawke.  _ Marian Hawke, a true sucker for the undeniably strange and somewhat hopeless, with a soft spot for anyone with half a sob story or lost cause. She was especially soft for naughty pirates with sinfully itchy fingers. 

The Arishok challenged and, to spare the city the wrath of the Qunari, Hawke answered. Like the fool she was, she accepted his terms and fought hand to hand with the giant Qunari leader. That absolute  _ beast  _ of a Qunari. 

As soon as Hawke accepted his challenge, all the color drained from all of her companions’ faces. None of their crew would ever admit that they doubted their illustrious leader and dear friend, even for a split second, but they did. When Hawke puffed out her chest, cocked her chin high, and walked up to the Arishok, her own challenge burning in her eyes, Isabela felt panic and fear and grief. Even before Hawke would undoubtedly die, she began to mourn. She never spilled a tear but they certainly burned at the back of her throat. 

So they fought. Brilliantly. 

Hawke had once told her that people either blew mages out of proportion or dwindled them down to nothing. Mages were rarely gauged appropriately. Isabela hadn’t understood what she meant until then. The Arishok, both like and unlike his kin, underestimated the strength of a mage. Underestimated her formidability as an opponent. 

It was evident in his initial lack of effort with Hawke. Once she threw him back with enough force to fracture several ribs, he understood his folly. And so the true fight began and neither one of them held back.

Near the end, that’s when Isabela was certain Hawke would never return to her, not that Isabela had any right to expect her to. A part of her knew those strong arms would never hold anyone, let alone her, again. That voice would never fire back with something disgustingly smart. That influence would never force anyone to question themselves so furiously that they had to turn back, despite making off cleanly with an artifact capable of securing quite the lavish future. 

The Arishok stood tall and heavy, his boot pressed cleanly to the side of Hawke’s bruised face. He said something, probably “Bow to the Qun” or whatever it is Qunari talk about. Isabela wasn’t too familiar with Qunari battle taunts, despite her situation. 

There was a moment, brief in all reality, but that felt so  _ slow _ that it could’ve dragged on for all eternity, just before the Arishok pushed with all his might. One where those blue  _ blue  _ eyes of Marian Hawke met with Isabela’s. In them swirled pride and encouragement and pure love. At the time, Isabela wanted to beat the shit out of Hawke herself. She was a second away from dying and there she was, beneath the boot of the boogeyman of Thedas, trying to force Isabela to see how great a person Hawke thought she was. Turned that moment into a feel-good lesson when it was everything but. 

Then it happened. The Arishok pressed down with all his might and the room, perhaps the most quiet room in all of Thedas, was filled with a disgusting wet  _ snap  _ as the bone and cartilage of Hawke’s nose tore apart. It was split right open. 

Oh, Maker, the blood. It not only poured like heavy rainfall from her nostrils, it gushed like rivers from the gnarly gash just above where the nose had been snapped clean. Blood painted Marian’s pale skin, the contrast so stark that in any other circumstance, Isabela would’ve been in awe at such beauty.

But not then. She felt sick to her stomach, cried out in phantom pain for Hawke.  _ Her  _ Hawke. Later, she would kick herself for thinking that but she couldn’t hate herself then, not when Hawke’s skull was likely to be crushed.

It wasn’t, though. 

The Arishok, dumb enough to begin thinking he had bested his rival, was too limited in his knowledge of mages to know not to corner them. And Hawke was certainly cornered. Just before he could apply the right, final amount of pressure, he let out a choked cry. What had happened just seconds before happened too fast for anyone to see, but later, after Hawke had been set up in her room at the estate, she told her companions how she defeated the Arishok. 

“Blood magic,” she’d said, the remorse in her voice clear through her struggle to speak.

Hawke had used her own blood to kill the Arishok instantly. While he’d been gloating in his premature victory, Hawke’s free hand, drenched in blood, had wound its way up his leg, her fingertips pressed clean against his ashen skin. Through the pores in his skin, her blood seeped into him. Though hardly enough to cause much damage, her blood mixed easily with his. And she set fire to it.

In his veins flowed literal fire. 

The thub with which he fell back shook the whole room. Hawke didn’t instantly get up, her focus on regaining her strength and trying not to vomit.

-

People rarely delved too deeply into why the Qunari pillaged the city. For most, the Arishok being completely off his rocker was enough of an answer, as satisfying as any other. Surprisingly, people didn’t need much of an answer for why so many died. Isabela wondered if it was because it was the Qunari and that was reason all on its own.

But Isabela knew why. She knew  _ too  _ well.

The Qunari attack was all her fault. The near death of Hawke was all her fault. Hawke’s crooked nose was all her fault.

She’d stolen that damn book - she couldn’t even remember its name or who wrote it - and thrown the city into the lion’s den because she’d resided there for so long. For that, she blamed Hawke, but even then, it was half-hearted. 

If she’d never stolen that book, never run to Kirkwall . . . Too many ifs for comfort. 

Isabela ran her finger down the length of Hawke’s nose, her touch light so as to not disturb her lover. A sleeping Hawke was one of the best Hawkes. 

Everyone thought the pirate fearless. Thought she had no care or regrets in the world. But she had more than she cared to admit. Hawke was privy to all her insecurities, fears, cares, and regrets, save for the one that pertained to her. 

The guilt over stealing that book would forever be her most profound sense of regret, just like Hawke would be forever scarred, forever crooked. At times, the guilt she felt for risking the woman she loved so dearly was intense and she had to look away from Hawke. Oh, yes, there was  _ no  _ denying that Isabela loved Hawke fiercely, but . . . she could be hard to look at. Maybe for all the right reasons. 

There were times when Isabela felt she needed to be reminded of who she was, how stupid and selfish she was. Not only stealing the book, but leaving Hawke behind to deal with the aftermath.

Like the regret, Isabela would never be able to shake the look of pure confusion and betrayal in Hawke’s eyes when she left. It still lingered for a time even after she returned. Hell, there were moments when Isabela did something especially shitty that a flash of those emotions showed in Hawke’s vibrant eyes. How she hated it, wounding Hawke like that. 

As they lie tangled together, Isabela bordering on sleep and Hawke already snoring away, she wondered if Hawke ever regretted sparing her life. 

“I would,” Isabela breathed, her chest tight with emotion.

Hawke grunts. “Don’t,” she mumbles and Isabela quietly chuckles.

Perhaps Hawke didn’t regret her choice. Isabela was learning to live with that. 

 


End file.
